Christmas Angel (9 page)

Somehow, he forced his tongue from the roof of his mouth, breaking through a bevy of lusty images swimming in his brain and spoke, calmly and collectedly, neither of which described what was going on inside him. “Don’t touch it.”

He reached up and snatched the plug from the outlet at the side of the medicine cabinet. Only then did he allow himself to breathe. He gathered the radio in his arms, wrapped the cord around it, then holding it to his chest sank to the floor with his back to the wall. He closed his eyes, trying valiantly to sort his thoughts.

The squeak of flesh against the tub reminded him where he was.

“You’re angry with me.”

He was sure he’d aged ten years in sixty seconds. “You might have killed yourself.” He knew he should leave. He just needed a second to be sure his legs would hold him. Maybe there was a reason he was such a loner. He wasn’t good at being close—having someone around to look after, to care for other than himself. He opened his eyes and his heart began to race again, and not because of fear of electrocution, but of something far more dangerous.

“A little reminder. Don’t keep things with plugs near water.”

“But it was there. I only turned it on.”

He could have kicked himself. He’d brought it in earlier to listen to the weather forecast. “I know not to touch it when I’m in the shower.”

“I don’t know what that is, but you’re not mad I took a suds bath?”

He blew out a sigh of relief. “Maybe you should wait until I’m around next time.”

“The music reminded me of something and I wanted to surprise you.”

He dared to look at her then. An unwise move if there ever was one. His heart began to race and not from the potential danger. The sight of her wet, pearlescent skin was doing a serious number on his libido and he had to get under control in a hurry.
Clear head, Gleason said
.

“Oh, you managed to do that,” he agreed.

She’d piled her blonde hair atop her head, giving those wide blue eyes center stage. He wanted to throttle her. He wanted to scrub her back. He wanted a lot of things he couldn’t have.

“Did you remember something?”

She nodded and a sweet, enthusiastic smile lit her face. “A song on the radio. It went… ‘angels we have heard on high.’” The correct pitch eluded her. Fortunately, Shado knew the song. Unfortunately, he didn’t know where the conversation was going, but the excitement on her beautiful face was sexy as hell.

“I remembered my name. It’s Angel, Angel Marie Sutter.”

Angel Marie.
A bit contrived, perhaps. He chewed on his lip, knowing it would be smarter if he got up, left the room, and talked with her later. When she had clothes on.

“You feel pretty sure about this?” He made another mental note to call Gleason and see what they could find out about her.

“Yes, I’m absolutely sure. I was so excited I wanted to turn up the…the…” She waved her soapy hand in the air in search of the word.

“Volume?” he interjected, still not completely convinced her name was Angel.

Maybe, she was grabbing at straws.

“Yes, the volume. But you knocked on the door, and it scared me, and I hit the bottle of soap into the washtub.”

“Bathtub,” he corrected, beginning to take his continual small corrections of her language in stride. He toyed with the end of the cord, realizing how something so ordinary could strike such fear in his heart. Fear he might lose her, that she might get hurt under his watch. Maybe Gleason was right. Maybe he was carrying around too much guilt.

“I’m sorry if I scared you.” Her soft apology brought his attention back to her. “Me too, I shouldn’t have barged in.”

She rested her arm on the curve of the old claw foot tub and propped her chin on her arm. “Do you know what else I did while you were gone?”

Her tone shifted and its lilt lifted his heart. Unimaginable for a guy who for three years had been carrying the death of his brother around on his shoulders. It was weird how in such a short time, she’d brought life into his world. A quiet laugh escaped his lips. He shook his head. “No, what?

“I braided the rug you’re sitting on.” She spoke with the boldness of the dawn rising on a spring morning.

Yeah, he’d probably have noticed it if he could have unglued his eyes from the frothy bubbles slipping down her silky, wet shoulder.
She’s a witness in your care.
“Rug?” He glanced at the floor, spying the braided fabric he’d been sitting on. “Did you leave the apartment after I asked you not to?”

“No, I found some torn up old clothes in your room.”

“You found…what?”

“They were piled in a corner; I thought they were probably work rags.”

“Work rags? Those were my best weight-lifting shirts.” His libido waned with the likelihood he was sitting on some of his favorite old clothes.

“They were filled with holes and the smell….” She made a face. “Most of them were hardly worth wearing. Of course, I washed the worst of them first.”

“In the basement?”

“No, in the washtub, here.”

He didn’t bother correcting her. The scent of Joy dishwashing soap hung in the air. Some of his best memories were wrapped up in those old shirts. How could she know in his freshman year in college Bonnie Freeman wore the classic gray the night they made love on his top bunk in his dorm room? The night would live in infamy.

Water splashed on him as she reached over the side of the tub and picked up the rug’s edge to admire her handiwork. “How to make it simply came to me, like the oranges. You know, this will last a good long while providing you take it out for a good beating now and again.”

Yeah, but it sure as hell would look pretty damn goofy on Bonnie now.

Shado’s gaze followed her arm, glistening with tiny bubbles, and heat slammed into his gut. So much for his glory days. It was time to leave—past time, truth be told—before he did something he’d surely regret. With greater ease than he felt, he ran his fingers over the intricate workmanship. It was impressive, the way she could create something of such homespun beauty from torn up shirts. He studied the rug in silence.

“Did you want me to save the water for you?”

“Thanks. That won’t be necessary.”

“Are we going to watch more of those western shows tonight?”

He spoke as he tucked the radio under his arm, making a mental note to remove all electrical appliances near water sources. “I’m afraid I’ve got to ask you to take a look at some new books.” He looked up and found her smiling up at him. He stared, unable to block the image of walking in on her and seeing the foam clinging to her flesh.

“Do you plan to stay while I dry off?”

Jostled from his reverie, Shado’s thoughts gave way to the mind blowing visual of Angel stepping onto the rug with nothing but bubbles covering her tantalizing curves. “Damn it,” he spoke in a gruff tone more to reprimand himself than her.

“You stay there until I leave.”

Her lilting laughter did nothing for his libido, currently in a tailspin. He paused at the door. “And another thing. Hold onto the side when you step out.” He turned in time to meet the obvious surprise on her face. Big mistake. His brain dissolved to something akin to Jell-O. Her mouth formed in a small
O
as she stood there, attempting to cover where the bubbles did not with her small hands.

He forced himself to look everywhere except at her body. Not easy in a small bathroom.

She nodded, crouching lower, losing her camouflage of soap rapidly.

Shit
. Shado averted his gaze. “I’ll get you some clothes.” He ducked out, flattening himself against the wall and squeezing his eyes shut in a futile attempt to dispel what he’d seen. Yeah, right. There was no fucking way he was going to sleep well tonight. He cursed himself silently, taking giant strides to his bedroom where he yanked open his dresser and stared down at the array of clothes he had to offer her. He spotted a pair of running tights and an old football jersey—one thankfully he’d chosen not to place in the corner pile—and stood there wondering how many pairs of boxer shorts he was going to have for the week between the two of them. He walked back to the closed bathroom door, making another mental note to stop by the corner drugstore soon and pick up a few feminine items—underthings mostly. She didn’t wear make-up that he could tell. Certainly, she didn’t need it. He’d make a point to ask her what she needed as soon as he recovered from this little adventure.

He rapped on the bathroom door and eased it open an inch to offer her the clothes. It was a moment before he felt them slip from his fingers. Shado quickly looked away when he caught her reflection in the bathroom mirror, her damp body wrapped in a too small towel. “I’m sorry. I can only offer you boxers to wear beneath your clothes until I get out and buy you some underwear…er, things.”

God damn it. He made a living hunting down cold-blooded murderers, but he could barely wrap his mind around the thought of buying her lacy panties. Then again, maybe it was his imagination jumping into overdrive at the thought of seeing them on her. The point was he ought to be able to handle talking to a victim of a heinous attack without his brain going to mush every time he thought of her naked. Hell, it wasn’t as though he’d never seen a naked woman…just not in a very long time.

“You needn’t go to the trouble. I can go without them.”

Great.
He closed the door, his libido yelling at him for the insanity of thinking he wouldn’t be affected by her staying with him. He’d felt a sucker punch to his gut the first time he laid eyes on her in that flimsy dress and those ridiculous old boots? Yeah, maybe Gleason was right. Maybe he was in denial.

Angel dipped the spoon into the rich, beefy broth and raised it to her lips. Feeling it needed more of a kick, she twisted off the lid of the cayenne pepper, tapped it into the chili mixture, and gave it a quick stir. Another taste set the tip of her tongue on fire, confirming she’d accomplished her goal. Shado was an adequate cook, she’d discovered, for a man. His specialties over the last few days comprised of eggs in varied forms, something he called “pizza,” and cheese between two slices of bread fried in a skillet. All palatable, but being cooped up all day in the apartment while he ran back and forth to his work made her restless. Then again, after the episode in the bathroom, being closed up in the apartment with him made her equally restless. The only thing able to divert her mind from either was watching old western shows on his television or experimenting in the kitchen. He had made a comment about his neighbor lady’s chili and how great it smelled in the hallway, and so after he left the next morning, she’d snuck out of the apartment and tiptoed down the hall to talk with the elderly woman.

***

Angel waited patiently after knocking gently, peering over the railing to be sure Shado hadn’t forgotten something and would return. She would have to make it quick in case he brought back more of the books that were beginning to make her head spin. She smoothed out the wrinkles in her dress and realized she wore a pair of Shado’s woolen socks on her feet.

The door opened a crack, and a wrinkled face peered through the chained opening. “Oh, it’s you. How lovely.” The door closed and she heard the rattle of a chain before it reopened to the old woman’s smiling face. “Come in, my dear. What a pleasant surprise. I was making myself a cup of tea. Would you like one?”

Angel smiled as she entered the room. “That sounds nice. Thank you.” She took in the apartment, decorated so very differently from Shado’s. It was, she noted, comfortable in a very familiar way. There was a rose-colored lamp sitting atop a crocheted doily on a polished wood table between two upholstered chairs. A rolled arm settee in worn, dark red velvet was flanked by two floor lamps with fringed shades. Freshly pressed white doilies were on the back of the settee and on shelves and tables scattered about. “You have a beautiful home,” Angel stated. She glanced down at the black and white hooked area rug, splattered with deep red roses and green leaves. There was an odd familiarity to the woman’s home, as though she’d been in a place where she’d seen similar things.

“Have a seat, my dear. I’ll be right out.”

Angel chose a rocking chair by a trio of windows overlooking the front street. She moved the lace curtains aside and noted the spot where Shado kept his car was still empty. She sat back down, taking in the comforting decor. In one corner stood a round table, covered with a lace cloth, featuring a tiny Christmas tree festooned with shiny colored balls and crocheted snowflakes. Its tiny colored lights reminded her of a time when she helped decorate a fresh cut pine. It was for her father in anticipation of his returning home—

“Here we are.” The elderly woman placed the tray on the table between them.

Angel blinked and smiled. “I was admiring your tree. It’s very pretty.”

The woman moved slowly with grace as she poured the steaming water from a teapot painted with delicate roses into matching fine china. Angel eyed the setting, sure she’d seen it somewhere before.

“These are quite lovely,” she stated, taking the cup from the woman’s unsteady hands.

“Oh, why thank you. It’s not easy to find a young person who appreciates older things. This set has been in my family for years. I was told they belonged to a proper woman of the church. She wrote a book about the life and times in an old mining town. She gave the set to my great-grandmother as a way of thanking her for helping to edit her book.”

“How wonderful it must be to know so much of your family history,” Angel remarked.

“Well, my dear, I can’t say I’ve always agreed with everything my relatives did, but I suppose knowing where one is from makes it much easier to know where you want to go.” She took a sip of her tea and then placed her cup in the saucer with a decisive gasp. “My heavens and garters, where are my manners? We have not yet been formally introduced.” She stuck out her wrinkled hand. “My name is Rosalee Brisbee. My great-grandfather helped start a small mining town near here. Of course, most of them no longer exist. Going the way of the desert wind, returning to dust as the good Lord says we all must do one day.” She released a squeaky, dry laugh. “A few had bigger towns built nearby, and some were preserved in order to be tourist traps.”

Brisbee
? The name resounded like a gong inside of Angel.

“And pray tell me, child, what is your name?” Rosalee patted the back of her hand.

“Angel,” she responded, still sorting out in her mind why the name
Brisbee
should strike such concern in her mind. “Angel Marie Sutter.”

“What a grand old name, Angel Marie. Certainly not a name you hear very often anymore. Seems like young folks don’t appreciate the older names as much.

Sad.” She tsked and shook her head as she sipped her tea.

Angel enjoyed the soothing warmth of her drink and the company, nearly forgetting why she’d come by in the first place. “Um…Shado mentioned how wonderful your chili smelled the other night when he came home. Might I trouble you for the recipe?”

The old woman’s eyes lit up. “And you like to cook, too. I told that boy you were something special. He should hang onto you.” She pushed from her chair and toddled over to a shelf of books with worn bindings. “I’ve used the same recipe for years. Know it now by heart, but I have it written down. Ah, here it is. I put it in my great-grandmother’s book. Technically, she was my great-grandfather’s second wife. So I suppose that makes her my step-great-grandmother…here you are.” She handed Angel a folded piece of paper with intricate penmanship.

“This, too, was passed down through my family. It’s an old recipe taken from a bordello called the Sweet Magnolia. Story goes my great-grandfather played cards there on Sunday afternoons.” Her brown eyes shone when she smiled. “But you can be sure my grandmother Dessie didn’t know the real reason he was there.” Angel stared at the paper in her hand, sensing a tingling in her fingertips. “Did you say the Sweet Magnolia?”

“Why yes, have you heard of it?” Rosalee adjusted her pale blue glasses on her nose.

“Just that parts of it were moved here to the place called the Imperial.” Angel eyed the book on the table where the woman had laid it. “Do you mind if I take a look at this?”

She shrugged a bony shoulder. “It’s an interesting story to be sure. Tragic in some parts. We can only hope Sheriff Jake and Miss Lillian somehow managed to be together, at least in the afterlife.”

Angel studied the black and white photo on the front. The faces of the women standing on the porch of the old clapboard house were obscure, but Angel was drawn to it in a way she couldn’t understand.
Lucky Lil and Tales of the Sweet

Magnolia
. She folded the recipe and slipped it inside the cover. “Thank you, Miss Brisbee for the tea. I should be getting back. I want to make sure I have everything to make your recipe tonight. I’d like to surprise Shado.” She hugged the book to her chest, rejuvenated by the idea that somehow the Sweet Magnolia was key to finding her way home. “Oh, and I’ll get this back to you as soon as I can.”

“No hurry,” Rosalee stated, walking Angel to the door. “Please come by anytime. I don’t get out much in the winter months. It’s nice to have someone to visit with.”

***

Angel placed the wooden spoon on the stove and checked her image in the reflection of the toaster on the cabinet. She assessed the tiny kitchen table she’d reformed into a cozy table for two, using some of Miss Brisbee’s doilies to add some old-fashioned charm under the plates.

She heard the front door open and straightened in time to see Shado peek in the kitchen.

“Hi.” His unshaven cheeks were flushed from the cold. She found she liked the beginnings of a shadowy beard. It suited him. “I have your evening entertainment here.” He lifted another stack of books cradled under his arm and disappeared back to the living room without so much as a mention of how the table looked

She followed him, watching as he strode through the room she’d carefully dusted and picked up earlier that day. Each night, she’d dutifully scanned through pages of photographs looking for the man who attacked her or perhaps recognize the one who ran down the hall past her that night. But the faces were beginning to blur, all of them looking the same, and she was losing heart, fearing she might not ever find her assailant. She opened her mouth to suggest they take a break for the night, but was halted by the dull thud of the books on the coffee table. Had he even noticed that, under all the clutter he’d piled on it, he had a coffee table?

“I have dinner ready. Just a few more minutes on the biscuits.”

“Biscuits?” His voice was muffled as he tugged his sweatshirt over his head.

“Sounds good.”

He walked past her, still working on the sweatshirt, the gesture causing his T-shirt beneath to ride high on his back, revealing the ripple of muscles and the way his dungarees hung low on his lean hips. She drew in a shaky breath and spontaneously reached for the doorframe to steady her watery knees. Unable to tear her gaze away, she watched as he flipped the light on in his bedroom and tossed his shirt to the corner out of habit. He braced his hands on the dresser and toed off his boots, then reached for his pants zipper and paused. He turned his head and caught her staring. For a moment, they looked at each other and she couldn’t help but see the hunger in his eyes. Her heart thudded slowly, and she fought the desire holding her firmly in place.
He brought you here to protect you.

Don’t make more of it than that.

“Unfortunately, I’m afraid I don’t have time to eat,” he called out to her, apparently deciding to wear the same pants. He rummaged through the dresser, pulled out a black object, and snapped it into the end of his gun.

She swallowed the lump of disappointment clogging her throat. “The man on the radio said a storm was coming. Are you sure you should be out on a night like this?”

He walked down the hall with his devil-may-care swagger, his eyes locked to

hers. “I’m afraid with my job I can’t let a little weather deter me.” He stepped into the bathroom without shutting the door.

Angel lowered her eyes and sauntered toward the bathroom, trying to find a way to convince him to stay—at least long enough to get something warm inside him. “I made chili,” she offered with a hopeful shrug. She heard the flush of the toilet and raised her eyes to his in the reflection of the mirror.

“Sorry, forgot to shut the door. Bad habit. One of many, I’m afraid.” He eyed his beard in the mirror. “Keep it or shave it?” He turned to her.

Angel blinked. “Keep it?”

He glanced at his image, scrutinizing the decision a bit more. “Yeah, okay. I don’t have time to deal with it anyway.”

Did he hear a word I said
? The timer on the stove buzzed, but she had no will to move.

He sighed as though resigned he had to address her presence. “Listen, it smells great, Angel, really.” He patted her shoulder in a brotherly gesture and stepped around her. “Save me some. I’ll eat it later.” He grabbed his coat and stocking hat. “Have you seen my gloves?” He searched under a folded afghan and, having no luck, tossed it on the back of the chair.

Angel’s mouth formed in a tight line. “In the basket on the top of the desk.” She fought not to allow disappointment to creep into her voice.

“Ah, here they are. Great, thanks.” He grabbed them and headed for the door.

She folded her arms and met him there. “It might be a late night.”

The buzzer on the stove brayed annoyingly. Angel took a steadying breath. “Well, I guess it will keep.” She turned toward the kitchen.

“Angel.”

The softness in his tone caressed her wounded feelings, but she wasn’t about to face him and reveal the tears welled in her eyes. She blinked. “Yes?’

“Everything you’ve done—the clove oranges, the dinner, and…the rug—I really, really appreciate it.”

Angel nodded. Frankly, she wanted him to leave. He’d been in such a damn hurry two seconds ago. It wasn’t as though she needed or even wanted his approval, or his appreciation. She was a guest in
his
house. He allowed her to sleep on the hide-a-bed in his living room.

“I don’t want you to think—I can’t—I’m not that guy. Dammit, I’ve got to go,” he muttered quietly.

She cleared her throat, swiped her hand across her cheeks, and squared her shoulders. “You don’t have to explain anything.” She glanced quickly over her shoulder. “I was just trying to earn my keep. You have no obligations.”

A brittle stretch of silence punctuated by the annoying buzz of the oven followed. “You’ll be okay? Here, I mean?”

“Of course. I’m not a child.” She picked at the bit of peeling paint on the doorframe, feeling like she had not one friend. Why was this happening to her?